


See The Dreams That Are Now Dead

by pillowcreek



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Canon, but that is it, there's a brief reference to tatiana and barb comforting in the past, this is seriously just straight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25296568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pillowcreek/pseuds/pillowcreek
Summary: Owen is dead and Curt can't stop dreaming.
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 9
Kudos: 31





	See The Dreams That Are Now Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Spies Are Forever fic, and I'm definitely interested in writing more, so please let me know what you think! 
> 
> Title is from Let You In by Marc Straight and Ellen Rose

Curt wakes up screaming for Owen. Again.

His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, his sheets tangled around his legs. He’s panting hard. He fumbles through the dark for his lamp and flicks on the switch.

His room is flooded with light. He can see the shadows in the corners clearly now. No dead ex-lover with a bullet hole in his head, watching Curt sleep. No blood spraying over his face. Just sweat. Just sweat and tears.

Curt runs a hand down his face, trying to take deep breaths. He’s awake. He’s awake. He’s pretty sure he’s awake. He grabs a chunk of skin between his thumb and index finger, squeezes as hard as he can.

“Fuck!”

Awake. Finally awake. He tilts his head back, rests it against the headboard. Breathes slowly. His bedside lamp illuminates the ceiling in an orange glow. He is alone. He is alone, and alive. Alive, but alone.

Curt isn’t sure which he prefers: the dreams in which Owen is alive, smiling at him, kissing him softly, or the dreams where he is dead and bloody and screaming in rage. The latter were so obviously nightmares. He could tell Tatiana and get a sympathetic shoulder squeeze. He tells Barb and she brings him a cup of tea. They both tell him that he had no choice. It hurts. So badly. But he wakes up and the world continues. Owen is dead and Curt killed him and nothing has changed. The nightmares are his punishment. A fair exchange.

But the dreams where Owen is alive. Where his death was just another disguise of The Deadliest Man Alive, who was never Owen, and Owen was instead hidden away, unable to tell Curt that he lived, that he was alive and breathing and loved him desperately still. Where he never slipped on that dang banana peel, and had escaped the weapons facility hand in hand with Curt, laughing about their new record, kissing him breathlessly in celebration.

Curt can still feel Owen’s breath on his lips.

These dreams were not new. Curt had been having them since the day he first thought Owen had died. Dreams where he wakes up in the morning to Owen’s arm around his waist, his drool on his shoulder, rather than emptiness and the taste of alcohol. He would have given anything then to see Owen’s face just one last time. To see him smile like he was trying to hold back a laugh at Curt’s expense. Now, he wishes he could forget that smile. He wishes he could forget it breaking through the fog of the weapons facility behind a raised gun, Curt’s heart pounding in his chest as he faced the prospect of dying at the hand of the man he loved.

He wonders if Owen’s heart had been beating as fast.

He wonders if Owen would have cried over his body.

There was an edge to the dreams now, like someone had sharpened a knife on Curt’s ribs to know how to slice him up in just the right way to wake up sobbing every morning.

Even Owen’s torture hadn’t hurt so badly.

In the dreams, it’s as if he is walking through fog. The location of the dream doesn’t matter. The other people in the dream don’t matter. All that matters is the man in front of him, his dark hair gelled back exactly how Curt remembers. He turns and smiles. And it’s not the laughing smile. It’s the grin that he gave Curt whenever he said something that made Owen fall in love with him just a little bit more. Owen pulls him close, regardless of what surrounds them, kisses Curt hard, whispers that he missed him, that all was forgiven. Curt’s heart swells. They had both hurt each other so much, what was the point of keeping score? Couldn’t they just have this, this happy ending, this happily ever after? After so much pain, why couldn’t they just have a clean start?

They are in a bunker as bombs rain down above. They are looking after the civilians. Why they aren’t doing something more exciting and spy-like, Curt doesn’t know. But this is where they are. He looks across the room and sees Owen, bent over a civilian. He gasps, a shuddering breath that his sleeping body feels. Owen looks over, as though brought to life by the slightest noise from Curt. Owen’s face drops in relief and he’s running across the bunker, taking Curt into his arms and kissing him like a man who was finally alive again (would never be alive again), whispering that it had taken Curt long enough. Curt smiles and kisses his neck as he holds him close, smiling through his tears as he tells Owen that he missed him.

Curt jerks, his face buried in a pillow that is soaked in tears and sweat, probably a little drool too. His light is still on, casting shadows that loom over him. He flings the pillow across the room with a yell, where it hits Owen square in the chest.

Owen laughs and picks the pillow up. “Fighting Russians in your sleep again?”

Curt wipes the tears from his eyes. “Owen?”

“Who else, love?” Owen leans over him and kisses Curt’s forehead. “Expecting another devilishly handsome man this late at night?”

Curt laughs shakily and kisses him roughly. Owen chuckles. “Well, I won’t say no to that-“

“What are you doing here? How are you here? Is this real? I dreamt-“ Curt closes his eyes. His eyes feel real. He feels steady. “I don’t know what I dreamt.”

Owen kisses where his pulse pounds in his throat. “You need to stop having chocolate cake before bed. It makes you jumpy.”

Curt savours the feeling, breathes deeply. Owen is here. Owen is real. He smells like gunpowder and cigarettes, like danger and excitement and power and lust. Curt grips his shoulder tightly. He is perfect.

“Now that you’re awake…” Owen begins, pushing Curt back down on the bed. “What say you that we make good use of the time?”

Curt laughs, runs a hand through Owen’s hair, messy so late at night. Something wet hits him square in the forehead. He blinks a few times in surprise and confusion. “What was that?”

Owen wipes his thumb over the spot. It comes away red. “You’re bleeding.”

As he says this, a wound opens in his forehead, in an identical spot to where he had just kissed Curt. Blood gushes out of it, spraying over Curt. Curt screams, blood falling into his mouth, and pushes Owen away from him. Owen lands on the floor, where he sneers up at Curt. “You useless idiot. Look what you’ve done.”

Curt wakes up and screams.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! You can find me on tumblr @thenightcrowd or twitter @pillowcreek


End file.
